


It's Not Okay

by phipiohsum475



Series: Serial Suicides [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:59:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3427094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock rises from the dead. It's not okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not Okay

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - There is major depression and suicide in this fic. Please don't read if this bothers you. I like you, and I want you to be okay.
> 
> Not betaed nor britpicked. Feel free to (kindly!) point out my errors!
> 
> Thanks to [Chanolay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanolay/pseuds/Chanolay) for the beta.

John sat at the bar, his nightly whisky in his hands. He sipped slowly, making it last. He tapped his fingers on the bar; and stared into the bottles, backlit and glowing behind the counter. The glass sparkled, and when he closed his eyes, he saw them behind his eyelids. There was a new brand of Irish whisky, and he mentally noted to try it tomorrow.

His fingers ran through the condensation on the bar, and John noticed their tremor. He formed a fist, and shoved it to his side. He bit back the request for another drink; recalling the promise to himself. No more than a single whisky except on Fridays, and one solid drunken night a year.

He drank the rest of the whisky in one gulp and slid a crumbled bill across the bar, catching the eye of the bartender and nodding. The woman waved her acknowledgement and John slid off his stool. Clutching his cane, he limped towards the nearest line, half a block away. He’d chosen the dank pub for its location and little else. He made his way onto the train, and sat with his cane across his lap.

He stared at the pattern of stains on the seat opposite him, until he no longer saw the coffee spots, but looked through them. His body jostled slowly with the movement of the car. He jilted and jerked with each stop, ignoring the other riders. At this time of night, there were too few commuters to care. To care about a sad old man with a sad limp staring into the distance.

After two hours, the car was mostly empty. John stared at the polished wood grain on his cane, running his finger over the damning evidence of his lethargy. He tapped his fingers on the rubber sole and closed his eyes.

“You ride this line for three to four hours each night, whiskey on your breath. You’re slipping, John.”

The baritone voice was unmistakable. John slowly turned, expressionless. Sherlock sat there, two years on his face, with a self satisfied smile, “Not dead.”

John swallowed and closed his eyes. His face went rigid, then he huffed and nodded, “Of course. This makes sense.” He clenched his fist around the head rest of the seat in front of him, and stood warily. He hobbled over to the doors and held onto the vertical bar until the train shuddered to a stop. John took a look back, and walked out the open doors. He heard Sherlock scramble over the seats to exit just before the door shut.

“You’re angry.” Sherlock declared.

“I don’t have the energy to be angry.” John continued to walk.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m nothing. Go away, Sherlock.”

“That’s it? After two years? Have you no intellectual curiosity? No appreciation for the fine art that was faking my death? At the very least, I expected a thorough school yard beating.” Sherlock bounced around him in a near manic state.

“I’m not interested. Go away, Sherlock.”

“I’ll be by your flat tomorrow evening. Give you time to adjust.”

“I’ve moved.”

“I know.”

John sighed, “Of course you do. I suppose you’ve been having me watched.”

“I couldn’t take down Moriarty’s network and leave you exposed,” Sherlock scoffed.

John looked down and to the left. “Go away, Sherlock,” he stopped and gripped his cane tightly.

“Oh, you’ll be excited John! We’ll be back! Solving crimes in London like the good old times!” Sherlock affected a curious grin, “That’s what people say, right?”

-o-

John slept restlessly, but not unlike any other night. His mind rolled and thundered; thousands of hooves beating down on dry land. The little sleep he did get was littered with nightmares. Watching Sherlock fall, over and over, the blood surrounding him on the cold cement and then watching him laugh. Giggling and pleased at John’s expense. At his pain. At his depression and pathetic waste of life.

At half five, John gave up the pretense of sleep, and went dutifully into the shower. He sat on the porcelain floor, letting the hot water run down his back, soothing his aching leg. When finally the water ran cold, he slowly struggled his way to standing, scrubbing the moisture off his body with a rough towel. He scoured hard, watching his skin redden even further. He waited until he felt the pain before stopping.

He sat in his arm chair, one he bought after not being able to bear Baker St, nor its reminders. He stared out the window, watching the sun rise into the sky, and slowly fall back down again, like a single tear falling. He heard the knock at the door and ignored it. Time lapsed, and suddenly Sherlock was there, shaking him.

“John! What the hell are you doing?”

“Sherlock, go away.” John could say little else.

“It’s been nearly a day. Shouldn’t you be over this tedious repetitiveness by now?” Sherlock paced the living room.

“Two years of mourning doesn’t dissipate in a day.”

“But certainly mourning should cease once the precipitating factor has resolved.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” John replied, his voice monotone and emotionless.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, John! Do something! Get angry! Let’s get past this dull, boring _sentiment_ , and _move on_.”

John stamped his cane hard on the wood floor, “NO! No! I will _not_ move on!” He grimaced at his outburst and lapsed back into his disaffected stare. With a heavy sigh, he repeated, “Go away, Sherlock.”

“Progress,” Sherlock preened.

“Get out.”

-o-

After Sherlock finally left, John dragged himself down to the pub. Tonight wasn’t his designated drink-to-oblivion night, but special circumstances prevailed. He handed a note over to the bartender, so that she could pay the cabbie when he fell asleep at the bar.

He lost count of his drinks, though he responsibly ordered water periodically to prevent excessive dehydration in the morning. He wasn’t entirely sure why he bothered. He felt the crushing weight on his chest no matter the physical pain. If anything, the physical was a distraction from the way darkness laid hooks into his soul and tore it down; in shredded piecemeal. If he could conjure such imagery, he thought, he clearly needed another drink. He waved a wobbly arm towards the bartender, who delivered another three fingers of numbness, neat.

He awoke on his bed, shoes and belt off, under the covers. A glass of water and a few paracetemol sat on his night stand and the curtains were closed. Before he even looked, he knew his chair in the corner would be occupied. He propped himself up on one elbow and took the pills with a large gulp of water. It cooled and refreshed him, so he finished it off. He sighed, and turned to look.

Sherlock was draped over his arm chair, limbs dangling except the one perusing his mobile.

“Go away, Sherlock.”

“At least let me explain,” Sherlock’s eyes didn’t wander from the screen.

“I don’t care.”

“Surely you must have some academic interest by now.”

John swung his legs over the bed and groped for his cane. He hobbled to the bathroom just a few short feet away in his tiny flat, and slammed the door behind him. Under the heat of the spray, John hoped that a forty five minute shower would bore Sherlock to the point of leaving. He deliberated his thoughts; knowing that Sherlock wouldn’t completely bugger off until he had created a logical case for his sentimental reaction. The arguments kept drifting; John found it hard to focus without sliding into a steamy haze.

When the water grew cold, he heaved himself back out, wrapping the towel around his waist and opening the door. As he expected, Sherlock was gone.

-o-

He meandered down to a shop for a greasy breakfast; something to soak up the alcohol sloshing in his stomach. He took his coffee black and swallowed it too hot, letting it burn down his throat for some semblance of feeling. His phone vibrated with an unknown number and despite his better judgment, he answered.

“Watson.”

“It was for you,” the deep voice intoned, “You and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.”

John threw down money for the bill and left the restaurant, not wanting to hold this conversation in an enclosed space. Once on the street, he corrected, “No. You didn’t. You did it for you.”

“There were snipers. They would have killed you if I hadn’t jumped.”

“You have a plan for every outcome. You clearly had a plan for this. It wasn’t about us. It was about you. Could the great Sherlock Holmes fake his own suicide and spend the subsequent years tearing Moriarty apart from the inside? Alone. With no help, no back up. Just to prove you could. Well congratulations, Sherlock. You are brilliant.”

“John, you can’t believe it’s only that. I dismantled Moriarty’s entire network. I reduced crime world wide. I triumphed over evil. I expected you would approve.”

“I realized something when you returned. I am unnecessary. I thought, back then, that I had value. You called me a conductor of light once. I thought you might be honest; but you just told me what I wanted to hear so I’d stay your lackey. Your gopher, your skull. I have less worth to you than your mobile.”

John sighed, and Sherlock tried to cut in. “No-“

“I thought, Sherlock, for two years, that if I’d been a better friend, I could have helped you. Do you remember that? Remember what I said? ‘Friends protect people?’ And I failed to protect you.”

“Exactly, John! I protected _you_!”

“No, you found yourself a puzzle. A challenge for which I would only be a burden. And it’s no different now. I am a weight. I’ve dragged down the few acquaintances I had left. I have no one. I have no value. I have you to thank.”

John’s steps alternated with the rhythmic stamp of his cane as he made his way back up the stairs to his flat.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You are almost certainly more illuminating than my skull.”

“And now you’ve illuminated my situation quite clearly to me. Congratulations on your success. Find yourself a new skull.” John pulled out the drawer of his nightstand, “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

As he hung up the phone, John heard Sherlock’s demand, “John, what are you doing?”

But it didn’t matter anymore. John knew where his value lay.

He looked down at the weapon in his drawer. He drew it out, stroked its barrel. He loaded the weapon and lay back against the wall on his bed. At one point in his life, he may have been concerned about the mess; the clean up, the inconvenience to the landlord.

He was long past that. Somehow, losing his best friend paled in comparison to regaining a man whose very actions in the last few days negated eighteen months of acquaintanceship. They’d never been friends. He’d never mattered. His utility was all but an illusion. John knew that dismantling Moriarty’s network would have been technically challenging, even grueling. But Sherlock’s excitement; his ignorance of the effect of his disappearance; it all pointed to John’s own futility.

He held her in his hand, the woman who saved him countless times in Afghanistan. She loved him more than anyone had since his return. More than Harry, more than Sherlock clearly ever had. He kissed her muzzle, and asked her for one last sacrifice.

-o-

The gunshot awoke the neighbors. The building manager bolted up, waking with the pounding on her door, and she shoved into her coveralls before answering. She skipped double steps up to the flat and found the key for the door. She opened it; a well lit room, and turned the corner to see the blood splatter against the wall. Within moments, a man with dramatic coat burst in behind her.

“John! John!” the man demanded, shaking the limp body uselessly.

“Sir, he’s dead. I’m sorry,” the manager placed a hand on his shoulder.

“No, you can’t be dead. Two years, all for you! I fought traffickers, dealers, murderers, genocidal leaders, all to come back to you! How could you doubt me?! How could you not understand?” he was angry; shaking the corpse as though trying to force the life back into him.

As the EMTs arrived, they peeled Sherlock's fingers off from John's arms, “I’m sorry, sir, you have to let us take him.”

Sherlock collapsed against the wall in John’s flat, sentiment evident on his face. He watched through blurred eyes as they pulled a sheet over John’s head on the gurney. His chest imploded from the pain, the despair.

He followed John’s body to the ambulance, pressing a hand against the ambulance door; his last connection to John Watson. A man he loved, attempted to save, and betrayed all the same. The ambulance left, without its sirens, instead its silence like a funeral dirge in Sherlock’s head.

He wandered the streets of London aimlessly; finding himself in an old haunt, with old friends. An exchange; pounds for powder. Sherlock drifted back to 221 on a cloud. And plenty more to aid in the deletion of a blond soldier, strong and loyal, with fierce stormy eyes, a man who’d dragged sentiment, kicking and screaming from the inner walls of his mind palace.

He found a syringe and injected a dose. With luck, John would be gone from his mind palace in under a week.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [PhiPiOhSum475](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
